#im tryna

[phoenix-before-the-flame]

Something silly inbetween comms

Can someone get this freak out of his homie's fucking kitchen. (Ref under cut)

[imbluefox]

[tojisun]

you’ve just given me a thought

Reader sitting on Johnnys face with Simon fucking him. Johnnys pushing reader down harder on his face, all pussy drunk, smothered in her and it gets to a point where Simon has to physically pull reader off of Johnny just to let him breath because he wasn’t gonna do it himself and certainly wasn’t going to let reader go. He’s all flushed and breathing heavy getting air back in his lungs, face covered in squirt 🫣

oh lord i may have died and ascended-

and the way johnny’s got a vice grip on your thighs or on the dip of your hips, pushing you down on his face, either to muffle his moans on the hot press of your skin because simon’s fucking him so good, hitting his prostate so well, or to lick up at your pussy because it is so wet and warm, and your slick is so delicious, he can’t help but gulp it down because he wants more—

“joh-nny,” you hiccup, his name slipping from your gritted teeth in a slurred hiss. “stop! stop, please!”

it’s too much, too fast, and johnny’s frantic movements are only making you anxious. you can’t even feel his breath against your cunt anymore, and you tremble, wide-eyed as the cold wash of worry mixes with your desires.

you fist at his hair, trying to pry him off your cunt so you can get to your knees for a second, but your squirming just makes johnny grip your body harder. he digs his tongue in deeper, and you let out a drawled-out whine at the drag of his nose against your hardened clit.

“simon!” you sob, your breaths hitching as you tremble. “make’im stop! simon, make’im—”

“fuckin’ hell,” simon murmurs, breathless himself, his voice a rich timbre from somewhere close behind you. you feel his arms wrap around your chest before he pulls you towards him.

you lazily topple off johnny’s face and into simon’s space, your back pressed flush against his chest. you tip your head down, feeling the way simon does the same, and you two watch as johnny catches his breath.

he is flushed oh-so beautifully, his nose all flared as he gulps down air. his face is wet, messy with your slick, and you watch, with a silent gasp, johnny poke his tongue out to lave at his glistening lips, tasting the remnants of your euphoria.

you jump when you feel simon buck his body forward, jostling you and johnny together. johnny hisses, his face crumpling in his pleasure, and—

“oh,” you say, reaching down to stuff yourself with your fingers. “si, do tha’ again, please?”

simon hooks his chin on your shoulder, grunting in his own bliss when he pulls out, slow like he is deliberate in teasing johnny, only to punch his cock back in johnny. you three share a moan.

[brutalcomplex]

[unripe-lemon]

PLEASE REBLOG FOR MORE DATA!!!!!!!

[fivevotesdown]

i love y'all but u gotta quit putting men as kens for being men ken isn't ken because he's a man. barbie isn't barbie bc she's a woman. ken is ken because he's maximum babygirl and barbie is barbie bc she's maximum girlboss. Naruto is a ken but Sasuke is a barbie. princess bubblegum is a barbie marceline is a ken. house is barbie wilson is ken gatsby is a barbie nick is a ken howl pendragon and Sophie are both Barbies zuko and sokka are ken4ken. are you getting it

[colfy-wolfy]

hello again I'm insane. I will never not love drawing slugcats hugging and cuddling. but my md hyperfixation hasn't stopped yet so it's nuziv

[eve-was-framed]

this was genuinely healing to see

[triona-tribblescore]

UH- UM- MY HAND SLIPPED-

Tw// suggestive material

[dkettchen]

she would've told them unlike her canon! version who decided not to be an ally smh

[doctorqueensanatomy]

*me sensing a tonal shift in the tumblr ecosystem* misha collins has had another encounter with bisexuality hasn't he

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[shouyuus]

making hickeys. on vi’s abs. thats all.

send me vi thirsts and i'll give u my hand in marriage

kissing down her abs till she's gasping, and she'd make the prettiest noises, wouldn't she? little pitched whines and bitten-off keens at the back of her throat, her fingers spearing through your hair, her hands uncertain of what to do -- whether to press you closer or to pull you away; there's a gasp stuck in her throat, heat coiling in her stomach, a disparate, untamed hunger licking up the length of her spine, tingling down her arms as she does her damned-well best not to flip you both and pin you beneath her.

but a part of her wants this too, yearns for the softness with which you treat her, the back-arching sweetness that collects beneath your tongue as you press kiss after kiss along the defined lines of her abs.

at first, to tease her, to watch them flex and relax, the lines carving into her skin like footprints on a tide-strewn beach. but then, after a while, you'd fallen into the well of her hitching breaths, the darling little moans she tries to tuck into the sides of her cheeks, no matter how often you tell her that you love her noises.

"p-princess -- please --"

her voice is ragged, though you've not moved an inch below her belly button, she already sounds debauched.

"but i'm not doing anything," you tease, grinning as you pillow your cheek against her now hickey-marked abs. she puffs out a breath, carding her fingers through your hair to stroke at your neck.

"if people knew how mean you really were --"

you lean down to nip at the line just above the waistband of her pants, making her hips jump up, her head tipping back as she gasps.

"i'm not mean." though you can't help the smirk that twists your lips as you catch her looking back down at you with those dark, blown-out pupils, her lashes fluttering, gaze half-lidded with want.

"such a pretty little liar," she says, with no malice at all, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. you crinkle your nose at her words, sighing as you finally relent and sit back up, letting her pull you across the length of her body for a long, heart-settling kiss.

"its your fault, you know," you murmur, after she lets you pull away, her hand still at the back of your neck, holding you close. she chuckles, her voice low.

"my fault?"

"yeah. for having such kiss-able abs."

she laughs then, the sound bright as windchimes, and just as sweet.

"right, right," she says, tucking you more comfortably into her side, "it's all my fault, and you're just a sad slave of consequence to my extremely kiss-able abs, right?"

you grin, nuzzling deeper into her embrace, "right. as long as you know it."

vi laughs again, dropping a kiss into the seam of your hair.

"yeah. trust me, pretty girl. i do."

[faebunnyleap]

I am SO sleepy and will finish this later! i do like this sketch tho so this is what ya get for now.

[serials1nner]

late night cherik sketches 😁

[humsops-stash]

not very subtle now are we?

we love us some awkward harry